Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 32
At the same time
Indiri Farris told him – Channing Michelson – everything she could remember. She ran through meeting Richard DeMarco on the international flight. She told the man from the NSA everything she could possibly remember about their chatting, their teasing, their flirting. She explained that she had given him her card – she thought he was just a harmless soul traveling to the United States for personal reasons – and she confessed that he had contacted her, agreed to meet her, and invited her to dinner at the wonderful Heston hotel. From there, with some reservation, she told Michelson about the romantic interlude – yes, she admitted despite her better judgment, they had made love, but they were adults, both consenting adults, and it felt like the right thing to do so far as she was concerned. She explained that, when she awoke to her ringing cell phone, DeMarco was gone, and it was then that her opinion of the man changed.
"He was no different than any man I've met," Indiri spat. "He took what he wanted from me ... and he left."
"I'm sorry," Michelson tried.
"You know the saying. Wham. Bam." She lowered her face in embarrassment. "I guess ... I guess I deserved that, believing that there still was some fairy tale for a post-40-year-old woman."
"Miss Farris," the man interrupted, "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean for you to go into the particulars. What happened between you and Richard DeMarco ... happened. I can't erase that. You can't either. There's no sense in reliving it. Right now, however, I need you to tell me what happened next."
"That's it," she stated matter-of-factly. "I left."
"You left the Heston?"
"Yes," she said. "The telephone call was from my secretary, and she was insisting that I get down to this ... well ... one of my models was performing some extracurricular exercise at a popular gentlemen's club. I had to stop her before she ruined her career."
The man reached over to the table, and he retrieved the photograph – the autopsy picture – one of the policemen had provided. "This is your friend?" He held out the picture of the white-skinned model lying on the aluminum table. There was a dark circle on the woman's forehead – raised, with ridges like that of a volcano. The dead woman's eyes were closed, thankfully, and her face was expressionless.
"Yes," Indiri tried, choking back her emotion. "That is ... that was Ulrika Von Sendon. She was one of ... she was one of the models I represented." Tears cracked through her rough exterior, and she wiped them away angrily from her flushed cheeks. "She was due for a photoshoot that she didn't want to attend," she explained, "but I tell you it was going to be her breakthrough – her overnight sensation. It would have put her on the map. And now ... and now she's dead."
Peacefully, Michelson returned the photograph to the table. "Mr. Farris, do you have any reason to suspect why someone would want to kill her?"
"Absolutely not," Indiri protested. "Ulrika ... she was high maintenance ... every model is. It's a cut-throat business, Mr. Michelson."
"I'm sure it is ... but, like you, I have good reason to believe that the bullet that took the life of Ms. Von Sendon wasn't meant for her."
She sat perfectly still, her eyes glazed over but fixed with determination on the agent. She knew what he was about to say. The thought had entered her mind once he had told her the truth about Richard DeMarco. The man was a terrorist. He was a killer. He was a maniac, a lunatic, a rebel serving no cause other than personal gain. Money, she imagined. Money ... or power. After all, isn't that what drove most terrorists to do what they did? Certainly, they wanted to terrorize. That went hand-in-hand with the job description. But, in the end, it always came down to the simplest of issues: money or power.
'What is it, Richard?' she thought. 'What did you want? Was it money? You appeared to have plenty. No doubt – if you're half as good as Mr. Michelson has said you are – you have plenty of it. You're probably independently wealthy. Was it power? Yes, that's it. Isn't it? It's power. It's control over others. It's pure manipulation for the sake of a morality-free self esteem. All I was to you was another victim you could control ... for the time being ... and then I'd become the worst possible definition of a victim there is.'
"People like Richard DeMarco don't function by the same principles that we do, Ms. Farris," Michelson explained. "Please don't misunderstand me. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he probably found you very attractive. He probably – in his own way – was pleased with every moment of the time the two of you spent together ... but, in the end, it only served his purpose for self-gratification."
She nodded somberly. "Yes, I understand, Mr. Michelson."
"Call me Channing," he tried.
"Thank you, Channing."
"DeMarco was probably trying to clear up what he thought was a loose end," he continued. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you suffered this way, and I can't tell you how sorry I am about the death of your ... employee."
She studied his eyes.
"It's inconsolable," he told her. "I won't tell you that I understand what you're feeling right now. I will only tell you that we're going to need your cooperation until we get this man." He leaned forward. "DeMarco will be stopped. We won't let him do this again. But we're going to need your cooperation."
The man really had lovely eyes. If she had to guess, he was a few years younger than him, but now was hardly the time for attraction. Odds are, she told herself, he already had a significant other in his life. Handsome men always do. She wondered whether or not his woman – his wife, his lover, whatever – truly appreciated the calming spirit he could be.
"I'm not sure how I can help," she confessed softly.
"Think about it, Miss Farris," Talmadge announced, stepping up to her chair after entering the room.
"I'm sorry?"
He reached out and took her hand in his. "My name is Bradley Talmadge," he announced. "I work, like Mr. Michelson, for the NSA."
Looking up, she noticed the man's gruff but masculine face, and, to her surprise, she thought she noticed something oddly paternal about the way he looked at her. This was a man, she guessed, who made it his business of 'taking care' of people. He made others feel safe ... and she appreciated the gaze he gave her.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Indiri said.
He crouched next to where she sat. "Miss Farris, I'm not going to waste your time offering you any kind of strategy that won't make much sense to any of us, but I am going to point out the obvious: Richard DeMarco called you. Richard DeMarco – whether you like it or not – saw something in you that he wanted. It might've been chemistry. It might've been nothing more than – as Channing has pointed out – the chance for sexual gratification, and please accept my apology if you find that estimation crude. Still, the man took a chance meeting with you, and, afterwards, he accepted the need to clean up his tracks. I don't want to alarm you by saying that DeMarco might not be finished with this personal vendetta."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. All she wanted – when this night began – was some simple companionship. She wanted a good dinner. She wanted a handsome man. She wanted to feel the comfort of another human's warmth lying next to her, despite her best interests to 'get to know' the man first. She wanted time alone with another caring soul. She thought she had found it with this mysterious international traveler ... and now she learned that her life was in danger.
"You mean ... he's going to keep trying to kill me ... until he finishes the job?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"We won't let that happen," Michelson interjected.
"Absolutely not," Talmadge assured her. "Right now, you're the only human contact that we know of with whom Richard DeMarco has spent time. We do know that he wasn't alone here at the hospital. There was a second gunman with him. As we sit here speaking with you, the Washington D.C. police are busy going through their files to try to determine who that second gunman was. If he has a record, they'll find it. Once they find the record, it'll lead us to the man and, should he have one, whatever organization he represents." Comfortingly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "But that doesn't dismiss the fact that – right now – you're the only person we have who can tie us to Richard DeMarco ... and, for that reason, I'm going to have to ask you to make some sacrifices for your country."
"Sacrifices?" she tried, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "What do you mean?"
He smiled, and, again, she sensed the security of being in his presence. It was a warmth she didn't fully understand, and she convinced herself that it wasn't important. What mattered was the fact that he was here – this Talmadge fellow – and he was going to see to it that she was kept safe from danger ...
"Miss Farris, consider yourself drafted."
... or maybe he wasn't.
END of Chapter 32
At the same time
Indiri Farris told him – Channing Michelson – everything she could remember. She ran through meeting Richard DeMarco on the international flight. She told the man from the NSA everything she could possibly remember about their chatting, their teasing, their flirting. She explained that she had given him her card – she thought he was just a harmless soul traveling to the United States for personal reasons – and she confessed that he had contacted her, agreed to meet her, and invited her to dinner at the wonderful Heston hotel. From there, with some reservation, she told Michelson about the romantic interlude – yes, she admitted despite her better judgment, they had made love, but they were adults, both consenting adults, and it felt like the right thing to do so far as she was concerned. She explained that, when she awoke to her ringing cell phone, DeMarco was gone, and it was then that her opinion of the man changed.
"He was no different than any man I've met," Indiri spat. "He took what he wanted from me ... and he left."
"I'm sorry," Michelson tried.
"You know the saying. Wham. Bam." She lowered her face in embarrassment. "I guess ... I guess I deserved that, believing that there still was some fairy tale for a post-40-year-old woman."
"Miss Farris," the man interrupted, "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean for you to go into the particulars. What happened between you and Richard DeMarco ... happened. I can't erase that. You can't either. There's no sense in reliving it. Right now, however, I need you to tell me what happened next."
"That's it," she stated matter-of-factly. "I left."
"You left the Heston?"
"Yes," she said. "The telephone call was from my secretary, and she was insisting that I get down to this ... well ... one of my models was performing some extracurricular exercise at a popular gentlemen's club. I had to stop her before she ruined her career."
The man reached over to the table, and he retrieved the photograph – the autopsy picture – one of the policemen had provided. "This is your friend?" He held out the picture of the white-skinned model lying on the aluminum table. There was a dark circle on the woman's forehead – raised, with ridges like that of a volcano. The dead woman's eyes were closed, thankfully, and her face was expressionless.
"Yes," Indiri tried, choking back her emotion. "That is ... that was Ulrika Von Sendon. She was one of ... she was one of the models I represented." Tears cracked through her rough exterior, and she wiped them away angrily from her flushed cheeks. "She was due for a photoshoot that she didn't want to attend," she explained, "but I tell you it was going to be her breakthrough – her overnight sensation. It would have put her on the map. And now ... and now she's dead."
Peacefully, Michelson returned the photograph to the table. "Mr. Farris, do you have any reason to suspect why someone would want to kill her?"
"Absolutely not," Indiri protested. "Ulrika ... she was high maintenance ... every model is. It's a cut-throat business, Mr. Michelson."
"I'm sure it is ... but, like you, I have good reason to believe that the bullet that took the life of Ms. Von Sendon wasn't meant for her."
She sat perfectly still, her eyes glazed over but fixed with determination on the agent. She knew what he was about to say. The thought had entered her mind once he had told her the truth about Richard DeMarco. The man was a terrorist. He was a killer. He was a maniac, a lunatic, a rebel serving no cause other than personal gain. Money, she imagined. Money ... or power. After all, isn't that what drove most terrorists to do what they did? Certainly, they wanted to terrorize. That went hand-in-hand with the job description. But, in the end, it always came down to the simplest of issues: money or power.
'What is it, Richard?' she thought. 'What did you want? Was it money? You appeared to have plenty. No doubt – if you're half as good as Mr. Michelson has said you are – you have plenty of it. You're probably independently wealthy. Was it power? Yes, that's it. Isn't it? It's power. It's control over others. It's pure manipulation for the sake of a morality-free self esteem. All I was to you was another victim you could control ... for the time being ... and then I'd become the worst possible definition of a victim there is.'
"People like Richard DeMarco don't function by the same principles that we do, Ms. Farris," Michelson explained. "Please don't misunderstand me. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he probably found you very attractive. He probably – in his own way – was pleased with every moment of the time the two of you spent together ... but, in the end, it only served his purpose for self-gratification."
She nodded somberly. "Yes, I understand, Mr. Michelson."
"Call me Channing," he tried.
"Thank you, Channing."
"DeMarco was probably trying to clear up what he thought was a loose end," he continued. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you suffered this way, and I can't tell you how sorry I am about the death of your ... employee."
She studied his eyes.
"It's inconsolable," he told her. "I won't tell you that I understand what you're feeling right now. I will only tell you that we're going to need your cooperation until we get this man." He leaned forward. "DeMarco will be stopped. We won't let him do this again. But we're going to need your cooperation."
The man really had lovely eyes. If she had to guess, he was a few years younger than him, but now was hardly the time for attraction. Odds are, she told herself, he already had a significant other in his life. Handsome men always do. She wondered whether or not his woman – his wife, his lover, whatever – truly appreciated the calming spirit he could be.
"I'm not sure how I can help," she confessed softly.
"Think about it, Miss Farris," Talmadge announced, stepping up to her chair after entering the room.
"I'm sorry?"
He reached out and took her hand in his. "My name is Bradley Talmadge," he announced. "I work, like Mr. Michelson, for the NSA."
Looking up, she noticed the man's gruff but masculine face, and, to her surprise, she thought she noticed something oddly paternal about the way he looked at her. This was a man, she guessed, who made it his business of 'taking care' of people. He made others feel safe ... and she appreciated the gaze he gave her.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Indiri said.
He crouched next to where she sat. "Miss Farris, I'm not going to waste your time offering you any kind of strategy that won't make much sense to any of us, but I am going to point out the obvious: Richard DeMarco called you. Richard DeMarco – whether you like it or not – saw something in you that he wanted. It might've been chemistry. It might've been nothing more than – as Channing has pointed out – the chance for sexual gratification, and please accept my apology if you find that estimation crude. Still, the man took a chance meeting with you, and, afterwards, he accepted the need to clean up his tracks. I don't want to alarm you by saying that DeMarco might not be finished with this personal vendetta."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. All she wanted – when this night began – was some simple companionship. She wanted a good dinner. She wanted a handsome man. She wanted to feel the comfort of another human's warmth lying next to her, despite her best interests to 'get to know' the man first. She wanted time alone with another caring soul. She thought she had found it with this mysterious international traveler ... and now she learned that her life was in danger.
"You mean ... he's going to keep trying to kill me ... until he finishes the job?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"We won't let that happen," Michelson interjected.
"Absolutely not," Talmadge assured her. "Right now, you're the only human contact that we know of with whom Richard DeMarco has spent time. We do know that he wasn't alone here at the hospital. There was a second gunman with him. As we sit here speaking with you, the Washington D.C. police are busy going through their files to try to determine who that second gunman was. If he has a record, they'll find it. Once they find the record, it'll lead us to the man and, should he have one, whatever organization he represents." Comfortingly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "But that doesn't dismiss the fact that – right now – you're the only person we have who can tie us to Richard DeMarco ... and, for that reason, I'm going to have to ask you to make some sacrifices for your country."
"Sacrifices?" she tried, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "What do you mean?"
He smiled, and, again, she sensed the security of being in his presence. It was a warmth she didn't fully understand, and she convinced herself that it wasn't important. What mattered was the fact that he was here – this Talmadge fellow – and he was going to see to it that she was kept safe from danger ...
"Miss Farris, consider yourself drafted."
... or maybe he wasn't.
END of Chapter 32
